This Ain’t Dunkin’ Donuts

My father, Lucius Van Dyke II, took my brother Scooter and I fishing once. Scooter’s name wasn’t really Scooter, of course, it was Peter. He was christened with that unfortunate nickname due to a childhood malady that for a time left him with what my mother called “the scoots.”

My father woke us early. He stumbled into the bedroom and flicked on the light.

“C’mon boys, we’re going fishing.”

I looked at my clock. It was four-thirty in the morning. I wanted to sleep, but my father had promised this trip for weeks. I looked over at my father weaving in place next to the bedroom door. I glanced over at Scooter. He looked down from my father’s face and over at me. Scooter shrugged resignedly.

We gathered our fishing gear together and clambered into the front seat of the Impala, my brother in the middle. The car was cold and frosty. I rubbed my hands together to warm them. My father climbed in and cranked the engine. He turned the defroster on full blast, fogging up the window rather than clearing it. He grabbed a rag from under the seat and wiped clear the windshield.

He winked at Scooter. “Always keep a rag in the car, ya never know when you’ll need it.”

We pulled out the driveway and down our street, exhaust pipe steaming in the cold morning air. When we were at the end of the road, my father turned right instead of left, the direction of Lake Hamilton.

“Dad?! Where are you going,” I whined. “The lake’s the other way.”

“Your dad needs a little eye opener, Lucius. Then we’ll be on our way.”

The only place I could think of that was open at that time of the morning was Dunkin’ Donuts. Scooter must’ve thought the same thing.

“Donuts!!” we said simultaneously.

The Impala cruised down Main Street right past Dunkin’ Donuts and into the parking lot of O’Hooley’s Southside Tavern where Karen O’Hooley was unlocking the door. My mother, Elizabeth, always called Karen “a handsome woman.” Until I was around eleven years old, I thought “handsome” was another word for “manly.”

My father climbed out of the Impala.

“Let’s get us some breakfast.”

We wandered into O’Hooley’s Tavern and took a seat at the bar. Much to my surprise, old “Swill” Bill Smith was already sitting at his corner bar stool. My father was not at all surprised. Bill Smith was called “Swill” because he would drink just about anything alcoholic you put in front of him.

“Mornin’ Swill,” said my father.
“Lucius.” Swill took a sip of a shot, chasing it with a beer.